The Aftermath of Victory
by Lomiel
Summary: In what remains of Helm's Deep, Orophin searches for his survivors amidst the bodies of the dead, hoping that Rúmil and Haldir will not be among them. Based on the movie. NO SLASH
1. Rainwater and Sludge

This was written a while back, and is somewhat of a "What If" kind of story. You don't have to agree with me on what happens, or on the characters, but I hope you enjoy what you read.  
  
NOTE: this fiction contains NO SLASH!  
  
Shimoyo Lómiel (1 Cor C13 V1-3)  
  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, places, and things belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.  
  
The rain had just stopped as Orophin stepped with all the grace possible through the courtyard of Helm's Deep, over and around the piled corpses of Men, Orcs, and his own Elven kindred. Though his face was impassive, his wildly searching eyes betrayed his horror of the aftermath. His hands-one clenching a bow of the Lothlórien Galadhrim and the other an Elven sword- both trembled, making the weapons quiver. A gruesome mixture of grime, water, and the blood of the three races splashed thickly around Orophin's ankles, staining his boots a stinking, muddy brown. Numbly, his hope ebbing in him, he sheathed his blade and used his battle-weary fingers to push his white-blond hair, splattered with black Orc blood, away from his face. His fingertips brushed the shallow black cut above his eye, and came away red and brown.  
  
Orophin continued to search, ignoring the others around him who wandered through the bodies as he did, looking for signs of life among the dead. His steps became less sure as his path took him from solid rock to more treacherous, blood-slicked gravel, and as he passed more and more corpses, panic began to swell in his mind. The bodies were all around him, their faces blank and eyes staring; they filled the courtyard, spilled over the wall and the gap in it. Orophin lifted his eyes to the wall, beginning to despair; but his gaze caught, for a brief instant, a glimpse of crimson cloth. Hope and dread flared in the Elf, but he quickened his pace, striding towards the stairs.  
  
Suddenly, his cloak tightened around his throat, and Orophin was jerked back. The Elf gagged, but his reflexes remained in tune; he whirled as best he could and found the edge of his cloak in the grasp of a dying Orc. The creature had been slashed across the face-a wound cut by an Elvish blade, by the look of the gash. Black blood seeped from the slash, which began above the one temple and traveled through a leering eye, pierced nose, and rotted mouth to end at the jaw. The Orc exhaled painfully, and the dark blood bubbled like boiling mud through the teeth that Orophin could see through the gash.  
  
The claw-like hand, clamped onto the soft Elvish cloth, pulled weakly back on the cloak as the other hand reached for the elf. A sound, somewhat of a mix between a pitiful moan and a snarl, escaped the ruined face. Orophin was flooded with disgust and hatred for the creature, and in one fluid motion drew his blade and plunged it into the Orc's chest.  
  
The mangled creature gave one last gurgling moan and lay still. The Elf pulled out his blade and swept his cloak from the corpse's grasp with an air of cold disdain. "Thaur orch...." Orophin was about to continue when he saw something move beneath the dead Orc. He paused and looked again-and excitement coursed through him. It was a hand, slender and white, flexing the fingers slowly-a hand in Elven armor.  
  
Orophin dropped his sword and bow and rolled the dead Orc to the side, then fell to his knees in the sludge beside the Elven form underneath. The Elf lay on his back, his eyes closed and his white-gold hair sopping with brownish muck. His armor was dented on his left side, with rich crimson blood seeping through the cracks in the plating. The Elf's right hand tightly clenched the handle of a long Elven blade. His breathing was painfully slow and shallow, but otherwise he wasn't moving. But Orophin, despite the blood and slime, could easily recognize the Elf's familiar face. He meant to say the name, but it came out rather as a horrified, disbelieving whisper.  
  
"Rúmil?" 


	2. Recovery

"Rúmil?"  
  
The Elf winced and groaned softly, but didn't move. Orophin slid his hand under Rúmil's head to prevent him from drowning in the gathering sludge. His fingers touched a gash, filled with dirt and blood, on the back Rúmil's head, and he felt his heart break in sorrow.  
  
At that moment, Rúmil's eyes slid open, the usually bright colors now dull with only a trace of their former spark. They focused on Orophin's face; then Rúmil smiled weakly.  
  
"M-mae govannen, big brother," he murmured. "Did we win?"  
  
"We did. They have scattered and broken," Orophin choked out, struggling to keep his voice steady. "Do you feel well enough to move?"  
  
"Yes, if it means getting out of this filth," Rúmil replied, and Orophin could hear a hint of Rúmil's normal self returning to the broken voice. Gently, Orophin slipped his hands under his little brother and began to lift him. Rúmil bit his lip and winced, but didn't cry out. A momentary wave of dizziness passed over Orophin, and the cut above his eye throbbed in protest, but he pushed it aside and set all his thought on getting Rúmil aid.  
  
"Hold onto hope, little brother," Orophin said, his eyes now firmly locked on the keep to avoid looking at all the unmoving Elves around him. "With the Valars' blessing, you will see tomorrow dawn."  
  
"Always optimistic," Rúmil muttered. "I was starting to think you'd never come for me. I did not want to die among those yrch."  
  
"Did you slash that one's face?"  
  
"Yes, and he turned and tottered away after he wounded my side, but behind me another struck my head, and when I fell, the first toppled onto me." Rúmil's eyes darkened with both hate and compassion. "It is hard to believe that they were once like us...I almost pity them."  
  
"Pity!" Orophin demanded, disbelieving what he was hearing. "Pity? You pity those who would destroy all that the free races have worked for throughout the ages? You pity those who slay mercilessly, who plunder and destroy all that is green and growing and beautiful, those who hate the living, even themselves, but fear the dead? They are to be loathed and fought, not pitied." Orophin's face darkened. "Father pitied them, Rúmil."  
  
"Yes, he did," Rúmil said, his voice hardly above a whisper. "But even still...it's not their fault that they are the way they are. The Dark Enemy did that to them, changed them so they were a mockery of the Elves. I think that even though we fight them to save our homes and our kindred, we shouldn't forget that they were once our kindred, too."  
  
Orophin's whole body tensed in fury. Pitied! Even now, he was forced to step over and around the bodies of countless Orcs, to walk through their blood, to pass by those who were dead who would still be alive if not for the Orcs. His head pounded with pain from his own wounds, given to him by those filthy servants of the Enemy. Elves, Men, Dwarves, Hobbits...it made no difference to them, as long as they could kill and cause pain. No creature so inextricably evil could ever be pitied.  
  
Then again, Rúmil always was the most like Father. The three brothers had grown up admiring their father; he had been the chief sentinel and protector of Lothlórien below the Lord and Lady, dedicated to the service of the Golden Wood and the preservation and safety of all that lay within its boundaries. Haldir, the eldest, had followed eagerly in his father's footsteps, and Orophin had done the same, with matching enthusiasm. But Rúmil...though proud and able, Rúmil carried the most of his father's sentimentality. Rúmil pitied his enemies, as their father had. Rúmil, the youngest, the one with the least ambition and the deepest understanding with the people of Lothlórien, the one who had compassion for the Men, Elves and Dwarves who lived outside the Wood's golden eaves...now he was injured, probably dying, from wounds given to him by those that he pitied-- abominable servants of the greatest Enemy of the Elves-for the sake of those he felt compassion for.  
  
Orophin passed through the broken doorway of the keep and strode with an air of practiced loftiness through the loose crowd of exhausted Men and Elves in the Hornburg, the former of which ogled at the Elf and his burden. Around him, others helped carry or tend the wounded, some in better condition and some in worse. Rúmil now lay quiet, his breathing shallow but steady and his eyes closed. Orophin paced purposefully forward, his face set in an expression that made those in front of him clear a path for him. He passed into the courtyard and looked around. Most of what remained of the force from Lothlórien was gathered there, those who were able helping the injured and, in some cases, dying. Haldir was nowhere to be seen.  
  
"Where is our beloved captain?" Orophin muttered to himself. Rúmil opened one eye to look at his brother.  
  
"Our dear brother is probably off somewhere, being important," he sighed. "He likes to do that."  
  
Another Elf noticed the two brothers and wound his way through the other Elves to them. Orophin recognized him-young, a relative newcomer to the sentinels of Lothlórien, but quick, smart and able. What he lacked was experience, and it showed in the younger Elf's pale face.  
  
"Have you news of Captain Haldir?" Orophin said quickly, and the Elf shook his head distractedly before remembering his place and answering correctly.  
  
"No, Captain Orophin, we have only started to tend to our own and take count of the wounded and slain."  
  
"Here is another for you," Orophin said sternly, laying Rúmil down gently on the wet flagstones. "Tend him well until I return." Looking down at his brother's pained expression, he softened his demeanor somewhat and placed his hand on Rúmil's forehead. "Worry not, little brother," he said gently, "I will return shortly with news of our dear captain and brother. Rest well." Without another glance back, Orophin stood, took a deep breath, and headed back the way he came into the carnage beyond. 


	3. The Shadow of Death

Orophin resumed his search where he had found his brother, noting that the dead Orc with the slashed face had been dragged away. The muck had begun to harden and stink in the sun, and the drag marks left in it lead to a large heap of dead Orcs on drier ground. Orophin decided he didn't want to be around when they lit the pile.  
  
He started again, looking through the dead bodies, which were much reduced as others joined him. Orophin's heart was lighter as he worked, glad that Rúmil was safe-at least for a time-but he still dreaded that under the next Orc, in the next hollow, he would find someone he knew, maybe even his brother. Such was the way of war. But no-Haldir was invincible. Orophin had looked up to Haldir, his elder, all his life, as had Rúmil, and though that and his position might have made their brother a little arrogant, he had always protected and guided his younger brothers and the Elves under his command. At first, Haldir had been against coming to Helm's Deep to aid the Men in their war, but had come at the will of the Lady, and of Lord Elrond. And Orophin and Rúmil-and all the Elves under Haldir-followed their captain, wherever he lead them.  
  
Right at Orophin's feet, the body of an orc jerked slightly. In an instant, Orophin had his sword ready, but when he looked closer he could see that the Orc was not moving of its own will, as its head lay some distance away. Sheathing his blade, Orophin pulled the Orc off, only to find several more piled under it, their throats pierced by the white- fletched Elven arrows of Lothlórien. The Orcs were heavy, well-armored in iron, and the stink of their blood and filth made Orophin gag and gasp for clean air. But the small pile of Orcs moved again, and Orophin tried to ignore the horrible stench that was making a strange pounding in his skull, a throbbing from the cut on his forehead. As he reached to pull off the next Orc, the world tilted suddenly beneath him, and the hammering in his head-like to a Dwarf-furnace in full swing in his skull-escalated to an unbearable explosion of noise. Orophin pitched forward, unable to think of anything besides noise and pain, his bow slipping from his limp fingers.  
  
But something caught him, and voices murmured around him in an Elven- language that he knew but couldn't distinguish from the clamor in his ears. He felt himself being pulled up, away from his work, and although his thoughts were clouded he felt sure that something important had to be done there, and he struggled weakly against his rescuers. But he was no match for them delusional, injured and exhausted, and soon he had to give up and let them take him where they would.  
  
Before long, they sat him down on hard, smooth stone, and he felt something being held to his lips. He drank, and tasted fresh, clean water tinged with a wholesome fragrance and lingering taste that he couldn't quite recognize. It swirled through his body, driving out the screeching noise and some of the pain, and Orophin was able to look around him and see his rescuers.  
  
One, an Elf not of the Golden Wood, held him by the arm, keeping him upright and steady; he had golden hair and, underneath his armor, which was like that of Rohan, he wore the green-and-brown of the Northern kindred of Orophin's race. The Elf was looking at him in concern, and holding the vessel of the drink ready in case more was needed. Orophin stared at him for a full minute, the familiarity of the Elf's face telling him he should know him, but Orophin couldn't quite place where he had seen this Elf before.  
  
"How is he, Legolas? Will he recover?"  
  
The name clicked in Orophin's mind-Legolas, a member of the Fellowship that had passed through Lothlórien with the blessing of the Lady- and he turned to the other standing near. He was no Elf, but a Man, tall and dark-haired, dressed like one of the woodland Rangers. He was peering at Orophin closely, as if he remembered him but couldn't place a name. Orophin, though, with the Elf beside him identified, could remember this Man's name.  
  
"Aragorn en Dúnedain, Legolas Thranduilion, hannon le."  
  
"I am sorry, but my memory fails me for weariness; but it seems you know us since you speak our names correctly."  
  
Orophin stood slowly, with Legolas' aid, and bowed courteously to Aragorn. "I am Orophin, brother of Haldir, and we met on the borders of the Golden Wood when you passed there with your companions."  
  
Recognition sparked in Aragorn's eyes, and he bowed as well, but before he did Orophin caught something else there at the mention of Haldir's name. Legolas looked away, towards the ruined wall, and it seemed to Orophin that mourning settled on the two.  
  
"Orophin o Lórien...have you news of your brothers?" Aragorn asked slowly.  
  
"Of one I do," Orophin replied warily, and dread fluttered its dark wings in his heart. "Rúmil, my younger brother, I found there in the middle of the courtyard, and brought him back to the Hornburg, but of Haldir I have no word."  
  
Beside him Legolas said nothing, but bowed his head in sorrow. Orophin took a deep breath to steady himself. He met Aragorn's eyes, and compassion was in them, sadness and sorrow. "Your brother, Haldir, chief marchwarden of Lothlórien...he fell defending the retreat to the Keep after the destruction of the Deeping Wall." Aragorn too bowed his head as Orophin looked on in shock.  
  
"You...you are sure of this?" Orophin asked disbelievingly.  
  
"I saw him fall. There was nothing I could do."  
  
Orophin stared, unseeing, at the stones at his feet in grief and horror. Dead...how could Haldir be gone? That meant...that meant that Orophin was now the captain of the Lothlórien force, and that he was responsible for the care of his family, his mother and his brother. Orophin felt the weight that had been Haldir's settle on his shoulders, and they bowed under the pressure.  
  
The clatter of someone clumsy and hurried reached his ears, and he looked up without seeing. A Dwarf came across the rocks, jovially calling Aragorn's name and shouting about how Aragorn was needed by the King back at the Hornburg. Legolas reached the Dwarf first and whispered some words in his ear, and instantly the Dwarf fell silent, abashed. Some remote part of Orophin's mind marked him as Gimli, the only Dwarf that had the favor of the Lady that he served; but none of that mattered now. That had been back when Haldir had commanded the sentinels of Lothlórien, before the Men had enmeshed themselves in this war with Saruman because of their slothfulness of mind and action.  
  
Aragorn rested his hand on Orophin's shoulder and said some words of reassurance and condolence before leaving with the now-silent Gimli. Orophin lifted his eyes to watch the Man walk away with his stunted companion, and hatred stirred inside him. Yes, this was of old the Elves' war, for they had listened to Sauron in the days when he still appeared fair to them, and they had forged the Rings; but because of Men Sauron's One Ring lived on; because of Men Sauron had returned to once again torment the earth and persecute its free races; and because of Men many of Orophin's companions and friends, even his brother, lay lifeless in their own blood.  
  
Without another word, Orophin turned away and set off across the courtyard towards the blasted wall. Still silent, Legolas set off after him, and Orophin made no effort to stop him. What the Elf did made no difference to him; all he wanted was to find his brother. The two Elves passed a Man and another Elf of the Lothlórien company working together to pull the last Orc off of the survivor Orophin had been trying to save. Underneath, a young man of the race of Rohan, hardly past boyhood, lay, shielded by the body of an Elf. The Elf's body had been cruelly mauled, obviously by Orkish blades, as he tried to protect the human boy from the assault. The two rescuers began to help the boy away, but the boy was inconsolable, sobbing wildly and fighting to stay with his dead guardian. Orophin turned away, glad that the boy was safe-but still, he would have rather had it be one of the Elves.  
  
Turning to Legolas, he saw that his companion's eyes sparkled with tears for both the fallen Elf and the boy, and Orophin felt shame sweep over him. He fought to push it aside, and started to the wall again. When he spoke, his voice was strong, but cold and uninterested.  
  
"Do you know where Captain Haldir lies?"  
  
"I do," Legolas replied, and it was the first time he had heard Legolas speak since their meeting in Lothlórien. "There, up on the wall, by the breach." The Elf lifted a slender hand to point to the same area on the wall in which Orophin had noted the crimson cloth.  
  
The two pressed forward, sometimes being forced to jump over or take long detours around the bodies in the courtyard, sometimes wading through pools of thickening, stinking sludge, sometimes walking in the open on crunching gravel. Finally, they came to the bottom of the nearest staircase leading up to the top of the thick wall. As Orophin set his foot on the first step, he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He turned to look at Legolas, and was surprised by the worry that clouded their brightness. "Whatever you may find at the top," the Elf said quietly, "remember that it is not all the fault of Men."  
  
Orophin stared at Legolas for a second longer, then pulled away from him and started up the stairs in silence. After a pause, he could hear the Elf's footsteps in the rainwater and blood on the steps behind him. Each step was agony as Orophin rose higher and higher above the courtyard below. He could see, in horrifying detail thanks to his elven-sight, the rescuers and workers dragging off Orcs to be burned and helping the few buried or wounded survivors out of the muck into the relative cleanliness of the Hornburg, where they could be tended. But all too often, the bodies of Men or Elves that the workers uncovered were lifeless, sometimes mauled horribly beyond recognition. Orophin turned away from the scenes of carnage, his eyes watering from the acrid, nauseous smell and grief for the fallen. But still he went on, step after painful step, foot after aching foot, to whatever waited for him at the top of the wall. 


	4. Grief for the World

Orophin came at last to the top of the wall and took a deep breath of the free air that flowed over it. He could see down into the valley before the Deeping Wall, littered with the bodies of Men, Elves, Orcs and horses, but unlike the inside, on the outside the dead were mostly Orcs.  
  
Here on the wall, few had yet come to tend the fallen, so the bodies were still thick and the way difficult. Orophin kept his eyes locked on the ground in front of him, not looking around him, only trying to find the path through the bodies that were before him. It happened sooner than he expected, without warning or sudden change; his gaze swept across a cloak of deep crimson, stained by blood and dirt. Orophin fell to his knees, crushed swiftly and completely by the weight of horror and grief. In Lothlórien, the Elves had always been the hunters, the Orcs always the outnumbered, the prey, the weak yet confident, the unsuspecting targets to pick off at the Elves' leisure. But here...here was different. Here, the Elves were the hunted, the weaker, the fewer, in a land devoid of elanor or mallorn, or leaping, singing water, without the golden touch of the blessed Sun, or the silver blanket of a pure Moon, or the melody of laughter, or the rest that comes without fear. Orophin wept for the world, for the hatred that overtook it, for those who would never feel ecstasy or hear true music, or experience something so sad and beautiful and glorious and joyful all at once that it brought them to tears because of the pure, untainted magnificence of it. Behind him, the Elf Legolas murmured in the tongue of his people, tears falling down his face as well.  
  
At length, Orophin stood and gathered his courage. He walked the last few steps forward, and he was at his brother's side. Haldir's whitish hair, encrusted with blood and sludge, was splayed about his head, his eyes closed, his hand still gripping the handle of his long blade. For a long while no one moved; the earth stood frozen in time and space, Orophin's eyes locked on the lifeless face of his brother. But although he grieved for the life of his captain, his protector, his kin, he shed no tears. Those were better saved for times when one could be weak. Now Orophin had to be strong; whether he could or not was not a question, failure not worth considering, despair not paid any attention, but hatred and loneliness abounded. And there, surrounded by the dead, even with his kindred nearby and the day won, with all the weight that had been his brother's settling on him like the full weight of a dragon in the ancient days of their power, Orophin felt so lonely, yet so full of rage and hatred that he felt he was on fire. He bent and lifted his brother's body from the slime that abounded in the wretched place, ignoring the thick, slick blood that coated his arms and hands from the deep gashes in his brother's back and head.  
  
Without a word to Legolas, who stood by silently watching, Orophin bore his brother back down the stairs to the courtyard, which was slowly clearing of dead. The air was becoming clear, the sun shining again, but Orophin did not glance to the side or around, his face terrible and full of hardly-masked rage, and no one tried to stop him. 


	5. Departure

The bright orange light of the burning of the Orc-carcasses cast the courtyard in a ghostly, smoky reddish haze. High up inside the mighty Hornburg, Orophin watched as the bodies burned, the smell and smoke making his eyes and throat sting and the pale light forming eerie shadows as it played across his sharp features. He turned away from the window back to the small meeting of powers inside the tiny stone tower. His young brother Rúmil stood at his side, pale but recovering quickly, already regaining some of his former strength and endurance. The Men conversed in low tones amongst themselves, although the Elves could hear their every word without trying. Nearby, seemingly unconcerned or unaffected by the oily smoke and tense atmosphere, Legolas the Elf stood by his friend Gimli as they spoke softly of some of the details of the battle. Mithrandir was there as well, the Istar who had stopped the slaughter and turned the tide of the battle; but it seemed as though the Men purposed to continue to Isengard.  
  
Orophin stepped forward after an impatient glance from his brother. "A moment, my lords..." He choked on the title, unwilling to call any mere mortal "Lord." "We cannot stay longer. The Lord and Lady desire our return, and we have many comrades to bury and homes to protect."  
  
The King Théoden looked up, triumphant weariness shining in his eyes. "Captain Orophin, if you would bury your dead, a place can be found among-"  
  
"Your pardon, King Théoden," Orophin interrupted shortly, "but I will not lay any to rest here, in a realm of Men. We will return to Lothlórien tomorrow before the Sun rises."  
  
One stepped from the far end of the group, and Orophin recognized the tall dark shape of Aragorn. When the Man spoke, his voice was tinged with compassion. "Orophin o Lórien, we may yet still need your help. If you would stay but a few days longer and continue with us-"  
  
Orophin drew himself up, anger flaring in him. "Lord Aragorn, over half of those that came here under my brother, including their captain, have fallen for the sake of your people and those of Rohan. Our own borders were left weakened for you and these horse-lords, and we cannot sacrifice the safety of the Golden Wood for you any longer. Our very presence here is a gift of the Lady; do not try to take more from us than you were given."  
  
Aragorn stepped back, his dark eyes narrowing. Orophin did not flinch under his gaze, and both stood, eyes locked, tense and alert for any sudden movement on the other's part. A hush settled over those gathered as they watched the proud blond elf-captain contest the will of the dark-haired Lord of the Rangers, and soon the only sound was the snaps and crackles of the struggling fire in the courtyard.  
  
The tension in the room reached its peak, and at that moment both dropped their gaze. Aragorn's shoulders sagged, but he nodded slowly. "You are right, you must return to the Wood. We thank you for your help, Captain Orophin. And..." He looked hesitant, like he wanted to say something important, but Orophin didn't want to hear it. It would be some sentimental condolence for his loss that Orophin knew he couldn't take; how could a mere mortal like Aragorn understand the impact Haldir had had on lives all around him, especially those of his brothers?  
  
Orophin bowed stiffly but formally and swept out of the room without a word, Rúmil following after exchanging a few last words with the leaders in that room. As he glided down the many stairs and through the hallways out to where his people waited, Orophin realized that nothing would be more welcome then to leave this place of death and return to the Wood where, maybe for just a while, the hatred and destruction of the outside world could be held at bay, and Light was allowed to live on for just a little longer before the world was swallowed in darkness. 


End file.
